“You know who I ran into last night?” I ask.

She looks at me. “If you say a bear . . .”

“No, no,” I say. “Ian Pedretti.”

I get an instant grin.

“Ian Pedretti,” she singsongs. “He was so in love with you.”

“I know.”

“I see him around all the time. He filled out. He was so gangly in high school.”

“Yep.”

“What did you guys talk about?” She rests both elbows on the table and bats her lashes at me.

“Politics,” I deadpan.

“Hey,” she says. “Please?”

“I don’t know. Just caught up. Nothing earth-shattering,” I say, hiding my face behind my cup. “I had every intention of enjoying a beer by myself, Scout’s honor. He just happened to be there.”

“You’re squirming,” she says.

“I’m not. I’m holding perfectly still.”

The SUV has indeed successfully backed into that space. I crane my neck to behold its wizard driver.

“How’d you leave things?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to see him again?”

I shrug, and it’s that writhing pain. It hasn’t gone away, but it had dulled to the point I could ignore it. Until now.

“What?” Scarlett asks.

“Nothing.”

“Are you faking pain to get out of this conversation?”

“I wish.”

“You want to go home?”

“No,” I say. “I’m fine.”

“You should go out with him. Really go out with him, not just to hook up.”

The optimism. She gets it from our mother, who covets romance above all else. We were raised by a woman who honestly believes that men are the key to happiness, no matter how many times they’ve proven otherwise. No matter the fuckup. No matter how heinous the offense.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, instead of Are you out of your goddamn mind?

“Okay, that’s a no,” she says. “Why? He’s super nice. Good sense of humor. Attractive. A musician. And he’s not some rando you met out. You know him. He’s a good guy.”

“Ah, yes. A good guy.”

She pops the lid back onto her coffee cup and begins to wipe the table, which is pointless because it’s raining.

“I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t want to talk about it, but he isn’t a bad guy.”

“Sure. Matty is right up there with Mister Rogers. He’s Clark fucking Kent,” I say.

This is the first time she’s brought him up since I’ve been here, and it’s the first time I’ve said his name out loud since finding out he bailed on my pregnant sister. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

Pain ignites my side. It’s so intense, the world blurs for a moment. It burns white.

“All right,” Scarlett says, putting her palms flat on the table and pushing herself to stand. “I’m taking you home.”

“But I want to stay in this Starbucks parking lot forever,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m in excruciating pain.

It’s not as bad as it was a second ago. It was a bizarre flare of absolute anguish.